Ballroom
by TheJesusFreak777
Summary: Scipio didn't know how far he'd go for someone, but Prosper opens his eyes to the truth.


**Ballroom**

**A/N: I shipped characters so passionately in The Thief Lord despite it being a relatively lighthearted non-romance PGish book. I hope I'm not the only one. So enjoy.**

Waltz.

Spinning around, her dress flaring out like an upside down flower, the petals sweeping across the floor as you hold her in your arms.

It's not like it's real. It's not like anyone cares, anyone looks, anyone sees more into the dance than there really is. You doubt even she reads into it as much as you feel. She can't. She doesn't understand.

The orchestra is seated. The music will begin in five.

She stands a few feet away, her feet correctly positioned, hands by her sides.

It had been Prosper's idea, it had been. Everything has been Prosper's idea, it seems. As soon as you'd confided in him, as soon as you'd told him, he had accepted everything. He hadn't been bewildered, or doubtful, or snide. He takes on the news calmly. He handles my proposition with elegance.

"Absolutely," Prosper had said.

Lights on in four.

She meets your eyes. Her pupils flicker over you for a millisecond before focusing on something behind you. Her mouth twitches into a smile.

"We've got this," you say.

She nods. You feel her hand in yours. Your skin smolders to her touch.

Foxtrot.

"What you want to do," Prosper had said, "is get involved with what she wants. What she likes. Everything that she takes an interest in, you take an interest in."

"Doesn't seem right," you said dubiously. "It's not me."

"How much do you love her?" he retorted baldly.

"Enough," you said gruffly. That settled it. You loved her enough to do this for her. To do the things you didn't love, to put up with your hate. You love her. You always have, deep down. It's never been physical. You've never kissed her. You've never touched her, even when just brushing past in a nudge, apart from dance. You never thought that you could love someone like you love her. Her movements are fast and quick and eloquent and at ease. She works like a chess player, every step thought out, everything she does planned and performed to excellence. There is no way you could ever deserve someone like her.

Your feet are anchored down to the floor. Three, Signor. You're on in three.

"Hornet likes to dance, Scip. It's her dream. You should thank Ida for that."

She is decorated in finery. Gold gleams between her fingers. Jewels shine around her throat. Her face is coated in layers of different hues. She doesn't like Caterina Grimani anymore, but it doesn't matter. You suppose that you don't look like Scipio Massimo anymore, either.

"I love her," you said fiercely.

"Good," Prosper says. "That's it, then. There's an open dance competition at La Fenice in January. Hornet really wants to compete, but she doesn't have a partner."

"Dance competition?"

"They're leaving it open to public. Anyone can perform. It's ballroom dancing."

You take a deep breath.

Tango.

"Hornet started with ballet, after you left to work with Victor. I don't know why. She never told anyone why. I think she missed you enough to do something else."

When you blink, you see her. When you close your eyes, you see her. You love her. You love her so much you didn't realize it was possible.

You didn't think it would be possible for anyone to convince you to go out and dance, but here you are. You look much too old compared to her. But you love her too much.

"All you have is two minutes," Prosper tells me. "Two minutes to show Hornet how much this means to you, how much she means to you. She still hasn't forgiven you, you know, for leaving."

She hums the beat to the song under her breath, and you fumble with your pockets. What are you supposed to do to show her that you love her? Kiss her? Propose? Suddenly your palms are sweaty and hands clammy and perspiration drips down your forehead.

And suddenly, the music is starting.

You suddenly curse Prosper for convincing you to do this, because nothing could go more horribly wrong.

You right your footing and dance like you've done it like the thousand times you have before. She spins underneath your fingers, you catch her as she feigns falling. Your routine is going perfectly.

By the end, the judges are generally impressed. You garner a score of seven-point-one, and she squeezes your wrist and flashes you a smile so brilliant.

"We did it, Scip," she says.

Your lips part but do not speak. You push a stray hair behind her ear. Maybe Prosper was wrong about some things. Maybe he wasn't.


End file.
